


the myth of ariadne

by friends_call_me_wobbly_hands



Category: Ancient Greek Religion & Lore
Genre: (BY asterius), (towards asterius), Ambiguous Relationships, Ambiguous/Open Ending, Angst, Attempted Murder, Bad Parenting, Cannibalism, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Implied/Referenced Murder, Minos Is An Asshole, Neglect, Other, Panic Attacks, ariadne needs rest, asterius likes apples!!!, because she deserves some role in the whole thing too, but still, do not worry though there will be a Lot of Asterius, perhaps not the best role, their relationship is up to interpretation, theseus has two hands? SLAY, very ariadne-centric sorry, want him to get on with ariadne? GO OFF, want theseus to get a bullhead boyfriend? SURE, you want them to be friends? HELL YEAH
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-20
Updated: 2021-01-22
Packaged: 2021-03-12 09:15:53
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,511
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28883031
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/friends_call_me_wobbly_hands/pseuds/friends_call_me_wobbly_hands
Summary: Ariadne grows up with the roar of the sea by her side and the roar of the beast deep under her feet; she learns to love one and hate the other. She might be making the wrong choice in that.It is not the story of a love, or a feat. It is a story of getting free, and moving on.
Comments: 2
Kudos: 4





	1. ariadne

**Author's Note:**

> I owe many ideas and lots of inspiration to theslowesthnery on Tumblr (especially to this post, https://theslowesthnery.tumblr.com/post/639151932143992832/theslowesthnery-on-a-list-of-things-that-i), so please check out their blog for more Asterius/Theseus good takes AND lots of varied amazing art! I cannot stress how good all of it is.
> 
> P.S. If you thought "huh, this fic sounds like one giant coming-of-age story with lots of teenage angst on Ariadne's part", you are right and you should say that.

I

Ariadne grows up with the roar of the sea by her side. 

She is used to the storms, the grey-pelted waves ramming the cliffs over and over in their endless rage. Poseidon is quick to anger; she learns to love his mighty outbursts that sometimes last for days. She watches it from afar, her chin on her small tan palms. Somewhere, out on the sea, the seagulls cry out, and ships fight to stay afloat, and seamen run up and down the wet decks, praying for their lives. Ariadne can only imagine that. She has never left the safety of her home; her father says she is too small for that. She listens to the storm from her room, wondering.

Stormy days are the most peaceful. She only sleeps soundly when the sea rumble fills her ears. It is her blessing that Poseidon acts out so often. When he calms down, and the sea is quiet, she can hear a different roar. It is always there, barely perceptible, echoing through the stone halls; Ariadne lies awake for hours, dreading and waiting to hear it again. Deep below, under the bed, under the castle, in the cold passages of the Labyrinth, it thunders again and again - and, unlike the sound of the clamouring waters, this roar makes her shudder and curl.

That is the roar of the beast.

  
  


II

She does not intend to learn more, but it just so happens - in clipped stories and hushed whispers, in refusals and denials, and parchments with scrubbed-out lines. None of her bright-eyed sisters, none of her sun-born brothers know; but they inherit the fear all the same, and they do not like to talk about it.

The beast is the pride and the shame of her father, and learning anything about it is hard. Ariadne is a princess, not made for the throne. So what if she is quick-witted and light-footed, wishing to outrun Artemide when she bolts up the cliffs to watch the sea from above? Girls should not bother themselves with such matters, her father says, and that is all.

She asks her mother, then. The queen looks away, and there is something dark and defiant in her eyes. She might be the daughter of Helios, but she burns differently; and she is every bit the sister of Circe. “So what?” she says, confusing Ariadne. “So what, there is a beast?”

“It roars so loud,” Ariadne says. “I cannot sleep for half a night.”

“If _you_ cannot, then I should spend my years sleepless.” Her mother purses her lips, jerks her head up: regal and dark and so scarily incomprehensible. “Asterius…” - but she falls silent, and says no more, as if the name has burned her lips.

“When the ships come,” she says finally, after some thought, “do not go too close to the entrance of the Labyrinth. Promise me that.” 

“Where is the entrance? I need to know, so that I do not go there.”

Her mother does not tell her that, but the cook does; and the servant girls that she eavesdrops on say even more. They speak, hushed and scared, of the bloodthirsty beast trapped under the castle. It wanders there without end and plummets the walls in fury, they say, and its roars disturb the seas around Crete. 

Ariadne sneaks to the entrance, of course. The ships are still out in the sea, and she is safe; so she comes close, shivering and sweating, jumping at every sound. It's night, and the fires of the castle are terrifyingly far above.

She comes to the stone gate and listens, clutching the ornamented doorpost. It's quiet for so long, but then there, there, there it comes: shockingly loud and close, unobscured by levels of ground and stone. 

The beast roars. 

The beast falls silent.

The beast thrashes and roars again, with some new strange note to it, and the sound stampedes right towards her.

It seizes Ariadne with terror and sends her stumbling, staggering away to the safety of her room. She cannot catch her breath for a long time after that, and she cannot fall asleep even longer.

Deep down, the Minotaur roams, seeking blood. And it has smelled hers.

She cannot close her eyes. Under her eyelids, in the darkness, she imagines the same thing over and over: a dark figure looming over her bed.

She cannot sleep.

III

Daedalus smiles at her as always when she comes to him; the master sits in the garden, enjoying the weather. Icarus is a few steps away, on a big stone, barefoot. He is standing with his arms spread and his face tilted to the sun, balancing in the steady flow of the sea wind. 

Ariadne thinks of joining him. She would, a few months ago, but she is older now, and she has other concerns. 

“The beast,” she tells Daedalus. “It does not let me sleep. Can it get out?”

Daedalus' smile fades. He runs a hand down his face. “...No. No, he cannot. You should not worry.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes. I can promise you that. No one escapes the Labyrinth.”

That both comforts and concerns her. “What if someone goes in by mistake? Do the guards lead them out?”

Daedalus does not say anything; this is as good a reply as any. 

Icarus jumps down behind them. “When I grow up, I will fight the Minotaur!”

“Of course you will,” Ariadne says with all the condescension of someone half a year older than Icarus. “If you can even lift a sword, that is.”

Icarus laughs and picks her up to swirl her around with ease, and Ariadne shrieks in startled delight; Daedalus laughs at their antics, as always, and the shadow passes - for now.

After an hour of play, Ariadne has to go. She wipes the sweat off her sun-kissed forehead, her dark hair in disarray from the movement and the wind. Daedalus looks at her with a smile. Then the shadow returns. He puts a wide, calloused palm on her shoulder. “Never go into the Labyrinth. Do you understand? If you go, the Bull will eat you up whole.”

Ariadne stops smiling. She slowly nods. 

As she's walking away, she glances behind for a moment. Daedalus sits on the bench again, his head on his locked hands. He is mouthing something, too quiet and too far for her to hear. Do his lips form the word _Asterius,_ or is it just a trick of imagination?

Behind his back, Icarus climbs the stone again and stands there, tall and proud - hands spread, his whole body tense with the expectation of movement. Smiling. 

Ariadne blinks and walks away.

IV

_Asterius…_

What is there to that name? Is that a person, a ship? What does it mean? Asterius, _stellar_. Ariadne looks up at the stars, parsing the heroes and monsters there with an accustomed eye. Perhaps one of them is Asterius, a mortal or a beast that the gods saw fit to carve into the night sky. Which one, though?

None of the myths she knows mention them, and she knows a lot; but the servants fall silent in a way that suggests that there is more. She can read, as slow and uncertain as she is. She sneaks away and looks through the records.

The knowledge sweeps her off her feet like a tidal wave. She cannot believe it, so she has to read again, and even then it is shocking.

She used to have another brother, it seems.

There is little to learn about him. All that she has is little pieces, slips of tongue; not enough to see the whole picture, but enough to suggest the outline. Asterius was born before her, and he did not live in the castle for too long. He went into the Labyrinth and never came out. People don't talk about him, from either fear or guilt, and her parents don't mention him at all. The pieces line into a story in her mind. Ariadne sees the plot, or she thinks she does, but what else can she think?

Dread is mixed with hatred, now. What could she feel, if not hatred, towards the beast who eats people, the beast who _killed her brother?_

She lies at night and listens to the Minotaur's roar. That is what Asterius must have heard before the monster tore him apart and ate him whole, she thinks.

She curls her fists in relentless, fruitless anger. 

The wind picks up. It's going to storm.

V

The ships come. 

People come out of them, young and scared; they are herded towards the stone gate, and they do not come out again.

That night, and many nights after that one, Ariadne presses her fingers to her mouth and bites down each time there is a scream. They are so weak, so quiet, compared to that roar, and yet she can feel them in her bones. 

The roar is there too. It is never silent.

Ariadne is young, too young, and she does not know to ask the right questions, but she does not question the choke of her emotions. It is an ocean of its own, it seems; and she's pulled deeper underwater with every wail that rings out and fades away.

Ariadne wonders if the Minotaur can die.

VI

“I'm sorry for Asterius,” she says to her mother, one day. She does not mean to say that. The words slip out before she can think twice. “I know what happened to him, and I am sorry.”

Pasiphaë recoils, looking down at Ariadne with both terror and indignation; the two feelings clash and fight, and indignation wins. “You _know_? Where could have you learned that? You know, oh!” She huffs and tilts her head like a bull preparing to strike, and her eyes are just as coldly furious. “I know you blame me, I know you do! But it was your father's fault as much as mine, he should have burnt that wretched bull as Poseidon wanted!… But where could have you learned? Oh, I know! Daedalus told you. I knew he was not to be trusted.” 

Ariadne blinks. “He did not, please do not be angry with him.” Daedalus is a good man, and he built a dancing ground for her once. She does not want him to be punished for no reason. “I don't understand. What could he tell me? What does he know?”

Her mother pauses. Realisation crosses her face like a ripple over water. “What _do_ you know, Ariadne?”

Ariadne fidgets. “I know that Asterius died in the Labyrinth. To the Minotaur.”

Pasiphaë gives her a long, long look. The fury dies down to embers, and she covers her own face with a hand. “...You know nothing, Ariadne. Go. Don't think about this too hard.” When Ariadne scampers away, confused and scared, Pasiphaë adds quietly, “But maybe you are right. Maybe he did. Maybe all that remains down there is the beast.”

“Mother?”

“Go, Ariadne. Asterius is gone, you were right about that.” She does not take her hand away, some previously unseen emotion wrapping around her slouched shoulders, and she says even softer, “Gods know, that would be the kindest thing to happen to him. He is gone. Now there's only the Minotaur. That's it. That's all.”

Ariadne does not know what to think about it, so she leaves. 

Pasiphaë does not move for a long time after that, though; her shoulders tense up now and then, though, as if she is fighting sobs, but her dark stubborn eyes remain as dry as ever.

VII

The ships come for the second time.

Ariadne tries to help. She sneaks out a dagger, a sword, a shield; she leaves them by the entrance, and some of the young men grab them in the rush before being shoved through the entrance. It does not seem to do them any good. The screams ring out and die down again.

Ariadne looks at her father, triumphant, gloating. She looks at her mother, silent and distant. She looks at the castle guards that threw those young men and girls into the beast's lair, and she never looks at any of them the same again.

She gets quieter. 

She wonders.

  
  


VIII

Ariadne is not a little girl anymore. She grows. She grows colder. She stops talking to her father. She starts asking the right questions.

She asks herself, why is there the Labyrinth?

She asks herself, what is the Minotaur doing there? 

She asks herself, _who_ is the Minotaur?

No one answers her, as usual, but the castle is overly quiet these days anyway. Her siblings are grown-up and busy. Her mother has stopped looking her father in the eyes ages ago. Ariadne can only wonder, but she is used by now to the cold heavy air of her home, and she has other things to think about.

She hasn't had a single peaceful night in so long. Dread and hatred remain, but now they are joined by exhaustion. Perhaps only when the beast is done for, she'll find rest.

She goes out; she asks other people. Old women tell her lots, as they always do when there is a willing ear. Oh, they tell her, why did they have to build that dreadful Labyrinth? Where did they find that awful bull to settle there? Could they not find another way to appease Poseidon? It was so recent, too; not even twenty years ago. We lived so peacefully here, they say, before the roar has started.

Ariadne listens and thinks, _Huh_.

Now that she is older, she can better recognise the shadow hanging over Crete. She sees it in her father's grin, in her mother's silence, in the glow upon the guards' armor. She sees it in the glances and winces, and in the trampled ground on the path to the Labyrinth. It never sprouts grass, like a wound unable to scab over.

Late at night, she feels the shadow pass through the halls, and people wake up with a shudder at its touch. Like a ghost. Like a curse.

The beast roars.

She looks out to the sea. The ships haven't come, not yet.

She still has time to prepare. Or at least she hopes she does.

  
  


IX

Her father smiles when he tells her, “You will be in charge of the Labyrinth, from now on. It is a great honor. I know you will not disappoint me.”

Ariadne does not smile.

  
  


X

It's another stormy day. Ariadne watches the waves from afar. The skies are black, and the waves lack mercy. Men will die today, and there will be no peace - neither at the sea, nor on the land.

She spreads her hands, tilts her face up to the troubled sky. She breathes out. The wind flaps her clothes and lashes out at her hair. It almost sweeps away her thoughts as well.

“Do you want to fly away?”

Ariadne turns around. Icarus, her childhood friend, only half a year younger than she is, walks to her. He stands nearby in the same pose, enjoying the wind. “As perfect as you are, the gods forgot to give you wings.”

She quietly huffs. “Do _you_ want to fly away, Icarus?”

“Not quite. My father is here. I don't want to leave him alone.”

“And what if he could go with you?”

“Maybe. I want to see more than just Crete.” Icarus' eyes are serious and sharp. “I can do so much, I know it. So can father. The king is generous to us, but... I do not like it here.”

“Why?”

Icarus' arms falter, come down. Ariadne purses her lips and looks away. “Is it… Is it the Labyrinth, Icarus?”

He does not reply at once. “I think so. Father is ashamed of it. Ashamed of making it. I wish the Bull was gone.” Icarus sighs, raising his arms again. “One day, we will leave and be free. And he will not be scared of the Minotaur anymore, or the king. And I will build things. You'll hear about me, you'll see.”

“I know I will. Just don't fly away without saying goodbye.”

“Alright. I'll remember.”

They stand there, two flightless birds, both young, both resolved, and fight against the wind. 

The sea rumbles and lashes out. Thunder comes.


	2. theseus

I

Ariadne cannot do it alone.

She might be swift, she might be smart, but she cannot fight, and it would not make much difference anyway. Deep below the surface, in the cold hallways, where every breath echoes, it is not enough to be a fighter. You need to be a hero.

The ships come for the third time.

When she sees Theseus, her heart soars and shatters. He is young and handsome, but that is not even half the charm; there is something to him that tells her,  _ That is it. _

_ That is the hero. _

Is it even love, or is it just an urge, an instinct to latch onto anything when you are about to drown? The waters are dark and deep, and she cannot see the light among the shadows. Theseus is her lifeline. He seems unafraid, full of some strange determination, and Ariadne hopes that it will prove enough when he steps into the beast's lair.

She must be acting all wrong. She starts laughing all of a sudden and cannot stop, even if she feels no mirth. Then she starts crying, even though her heart is numb. Her mother looks at her strangely as Ariadne runs past her, covering her face with her hands. No one says anything, though; they are too used to stepping around the sharp edges of other people's secrets.

As the priestess in charge of the Labyrinth, she chooses to explain the signs in a way that makes that evening improper for sacrifices. It is not what her father had in mind, giving her that power; but now the men and the women get to live for one more night, and she gets just a little more time.

She will not let those people die.

She won't let  _ Theseus  _ die.

She has one ally left, and one more attempt.

  
  


II

Daedalus smiles at her as always, but his smile weakens and disappears soon. 

“Give me a weapon,” Ariadne pleads. “Give me a shield. Give me something that will protect him in the Labyrinth.”

“I cannot go against your father, Ariadne.” The master's face is sorrowful, but set. “You know I love you almost like a daughter, and I watched you grow along with my own son. But this is something I cannot give to you. I cannot help the captives. I cannot hurt the Minotaur.”

“Please, Daedalus. I love him. I love him so much.”

Daedalus does not answer her.

Ariadne presses her lips together, stubborn, unrelenting - she tilts her head up just like her mother does. “You made the Labyrinth.” The master jerks, as if whipped. “You built it.”

“Your father ordered me to. I thought it was a prison. Not an execution site.”

“And still,  _ you  _ made it.”

“...I did. And yet, Ariadne, I cannot help you.”

Embers flare up into a fire, and Ariadne squares her shoulders, as if preparing to strike him with heavy horns. Oh, he cannot! Fine.  _ Fine _ , she thinks. If Daedalus will not help her, then she will do it herself, and damned be the consequences. She will bring Theseus the thickest armor of her father and the sharpest spear of late Androgeus. She will go to the old woman by the lighthouse and get a poison to put over the spear. And if Theseus does not return, she'll take a dagger and go down there herself. 

Daedalus shudders, looking in her dark eyes, and he must realise something because he says hastily, “Wait. I cannot give you a weapon, but I can give you something else.”

Ariadne's indignant plans are forgotten for a moment, and she grabs Daedalus by the hands. “Will it help him fight?”

“Only a hero can fight the Minotaur and remain alive. But he will need something to guide him out, and that I can give.” Daedalus' face is unreadable. “Come to me at dawn, if you do not change your mind.”

“I won't,” Ariadne says.

  
  


III

Pasiphaë is in her room in the women's section of the castle. Ariadne has long stopped finding comfort in her arms, but today she feels like a string that is about to break. She slips into the door, quietly calling out.

Her mother raises her head. Ariadne has grown up; the queen has grown old. The dark fire of her eyes is slowly dying down.

“Ariadne?”

Ariadne gets closer, kneels next to her and puts her head into her mother's lap. She does not know what to say or do, and the next day is a dark abyss. But for now she can close her eyes and listen to Pasiphaë sigh over her. The queen's hands cover Ariadne's head, and after a moment she even starts humming.

“Mother, will you be happy if the Minotaur dies?”

Pasiphaë's hands twitch and jerk away. She does not reply at once, and the touch returns even later. “What are you asking, Ariadne?”

“Many strong men and women go down there, each time. What if the Minotaur dies? What if the Labyrinth goes empty?” No more sacrifices, she thinks to herself. No more screams in the night, or her father's bronze smiles. No more shadows over Crete. “What would you feel?”

The queen's silence is heavy. Five, ten years ago it would have stayed as silence, perhaps a stern admonition; but time, and maybe something else, has eaten away on her. Her hair is grey more than black, and her defiant anger is reduced to somber ashes. It might as well be the final wall breaking when she mutters:

“Sorrow.”

Ariadne sits up. “What?”

“I would grieve. I would cry over his death. Perhaps I'd be the only one to do so, I can tell. Perhaps I am the only one who grieves him, alive.”

“Mother, what are you saying?”

Pasiphaë does not look. Her shoulders tense, as if she only realised what she was saying just now.

“Mother... what are you not telling me?”

Five, ten years ago, Pasiphaë would have withstood; but now, like a tree with roots eaten up by fire, she suddenly slouches over before the frozen Ariadne. She does not cry, but she speaks.

She tells her.

She tells her everything.

  
  


IV

Ariadne's ears ring with the truth. She can barely think.

She makes her way to her room, by touch more than by vision, and she paces thrugh the night. She cannot sleep. She cannot rest.

Down, deep below, the Bull cries out for blood, just like every night before. Yet this time, it sounds different to her, and her heart is filled with anguish and disgust. 

The sea is calm. Maybe it is better this way. It feels like Poseidon has betrayed her, ripping off the only thing that brought her the tiniest of comforts. She used to be so happy when the sound of the waves silenced that roar! Now, she feels sick. The sea's wrath has silenced her brother's voice in more ways than one.

She presses her hands to her ears and paces, paces, paces till her head starts swimming.

Asterius is still down there. Trapped. Trod upon. He was never gone, never carved in the stars; instead, he lurked deep below like the monsters of the underworld, turned into a murderer - a monster in his own might. He is still there. He is still waiting for another human to set foot into the Labyrinth.

Dread, hatred, exhaustion, and now deep sadness - her heart is overfilled, and she cannot make a choice. Should she help the one who tries to kill her half-brother? Should she, instead, save the beast? She could pay with the blood of a loved one for the life of a brother. She could still take that poison and put it over an apple, and then give it for Theseus to eat. He trusts her, he likes her; he would. But in doing so, she would sacrifice much more than one soul, one heart. Twelve youths will go to satiate the Minotaur; none of them will return if Theseus doesn't. Should she put a single wretched life above so many more that are taken to prolong it? Should she grant Asterius life, or release? Is it her right to choose at all?

She paces. She is alone, alone, alone.

The roar, lonely, furious,  _ hungry _ , echoes in her bones.

At dawn Ariadne comes to Daedalus, and her numb fingers shake when she takes the ball of golden thread.

  
  


V

When she is giving the thread to Theseus, her face must be all wrong, because he asks if something is amiss.

She does not tell him. She does, however, tell him to show mercy and be swift. 

Theseus frowns. He does not have enough time to ask again before the guards come, but he promises her to be merciful. Their hands touch. Ariadne's tired heart flutters for a single second of ignorant bliss.

Then she gives him a sword.

She gives him an apple, too. A normal one.

She watches the captives walk inside, and then she runs inland. When the night comes, she pours a pitcher of wine over a small makeshift altar and lets it drip into the depth of the earth.

Poseidon has shown enough cruelty. Let his brother be kinder to Asterius than that.

  
  


VI

She waits at the entrance long enough to fall into a restless, uneasy sleep.

She wakes up, though, when the ground shakes, and the heavy footsteps thunder to her one by one - she rubs her eyes open, and suddenly she sees Theseus-

(her heart skips a bit in bitter relief)

-followed by the Bull.

She is on her feet and twenty steps away in a blink; then she notices the way the Minotaur is holding onto the edge of Theseus' tunic, and the way they walk - slow and careful, far from a heated chase. Eleven more figures follow them, leaning closer to each other as they walk out. Theseus looks at her strangely, and the beast…

The beast makes a small, pitiful sound and tries to hide behind Theseus just before they walk out into the open. He is not as tall as Ariadne thought. He is definitely not as bloodthirsty.

Then the beast - Asterius - breathes in. Sniffs the air. He looks out, and his eyes focus on Ariadne.

He jerks forward before struggling to pull himself back. Ariadne watches him, both terrified and mesmerized, as he makes his way out from behind Theseus' back and gets closer, closer; she can barely breathe when he steps in front of her and reaches out.

It is too slow to be violent. His nails are chipped and dirty. He touches the tips of her fingers and jerks back, as if afraid himself. He sniffs the air again. Then, with a quiet grunt, he kneels in front of her to look her in the eye. There is something strange in his eyes, something so unanimal-like; almost like an emotion. Exactly like an emotion.

_ My mother,  _ Ariadne suddenly realises. _ I must smell like my mother. _

“I'm not her,” she says and she cannot hear herself.

Asterius breathes out with a huff. He looks let down for a moment, but then he looks at Ariadne with some new hesitant hope. His hand reaches out again. 

It never makes contact. Ariadne jerks away, this time, and stumbles back.

She does not turn around. She does not need to look at him to know that he must look betrayed.

  
  


VII

Theseus and the rest of the captives sail off in secret at the same dawn.

Ariadne goes with them, of course. She is a traitor. She does not have a father anymore. Her mother will not help her. Her siblings will not take her. Even Daedalus' name is tainted. Her home stands on silence and suffering; who knows if it will crumble now that one of the pillars broke. 

Still, it is her family that she's leaving behind, and, just like her mother, she grieves it alive - she grieves what it could have been. Now, she's truly on her own. The bull with Asterius' name might be her brother by blood, but not by heart, and she does not know what to feel about him. She looks at him and wonders if he thinks the same things about her.

She watches Crete disappear in the veil of morning mist as they sail off, and some part of her is freed - some part of her is lost. She regrets not saying her goodbyes to Icarus. It's too late now, and that's another regret added to many.

She does not know what is to become of her - of  _ them  _ \- after that. The future is still uncertain. She does not understand the reason why Theseus insisted on taking her half-brother with them, and an unwanted worry worms into her heart - she loves Theseus, but she does not trust him, and she can only hope it's not another cage waiting for Asterius after this brief respite. 

For a moment, she dares to be selfish and think:  _ but if we were alone together, on this ship, everything would be clear. If there was no Minotaur... _

Theseus promises her refuge, and this is as good a promise as any. He wants to know more about the Minotaur, too, but Ariadne cannot bear to tell. Just like her mother, she now bears the seed of the terrible secret, the truth of what she has done, and oh, how heavy it is.

Asterius cannot speak, or perhaps does not dare to. He does not come out into the open much. Ariadne does not, either; the sea has lost all attraction. It is not like they avoid each other.

Still, Theseus suspects something. 

Ariadne does not know how long she'll have to keep the secret.

Ariadne does not know if she should.

  
  


VIII

“Oh, yes. We fought,” Theseus says mundanely. “Of course we did.” 

Ariadne grips the wooden banister. “Ah.”

“But, you see, I kept thinking - the way you asked for mercy was… well, it seemed like you knew him, or at least had known him at some time. We fought, and I wrestled him to the ground, but just as I was trying to strangle him, I looked into his eyes. He has human eyes. It surprised me, enough to pause, but not enough to change my mind. I dealt with humans; I killed some, and all for good reasons. I thought there was a good reason for killing  _ him  _ as well.”

Ariadne does not want to know, but she asks anyway. “So why didn't you?”

“Well… I hesitated. He used that moment to throw me off. He rolled to his feet and reached for his club, and I prepared myself for another battle. But then something dropped to the ground.” Theseus pauses and looks at Ariadne. “An apple. The one you gave me. I forgot about it, and when my robe was torn, it fell away.”

“And?”

The hero smiles, and Ariadne feels like he thinks something of her that is not necessarily right. “He went for the apple, instead.”

  
  


IX

The Bull behaves… okay.

He is quick to anger, suspicious, reclusive; he has only a faint idea of manners; he runs from company and fends people off with grunts and quipped jerks of his horns. He smashes a wine pitcher; he nearly throws a man off the boat. But he does not kill anyone. And he does not roar.

Still, Ariadne cannot help but feel like this is just the calm before the storm.

Their ship is not a big one, with just one mast and few oars, and there is no chase, so there is no hurry. They make frequent stops and celebrate their escape, and pour wine over little altars. The way back is long. Ariadne is mostly forgotten, left to mingle with the captive girls, and it is both relieving and slightly annoying. Meanwhile, Theseus finds company in Asterius. They often sit in a secluded corner of the ship, behind the barrels. She watches her hero spend the long hours of uneventful journey in a one-sided conversation with the beast: Theseus is curious, and he must have spent enough time around other heroes and monsters to be unfazed. He points out things and makes questions, waiting until his bovine liege slowly nods or shakes his heavy head. The Minotaur does not fend  _ him _ off. Ariadne looks at them and feels a sudden, strange pang of jealousy; of and against whom, she has no idea.

They drop anchor to hunt for food, and a small camp is set. Ariadne, with the other girls, goes off to seek roots and berries. When she returns back to the camp, she sees that the men have cleared out a spot of land and now are wrestling each other with cheerful, daring exclamations. She stops to watch: her own feet have ached for a walk after the days on the deck, and she can sympathise.

Then, behind them all, she sees Theseus and the Minotaur. The hero is talking, telling Asterius something eagerly. The Bull nods, and then he grabs Theseus by the waist, and the two start wrestling as well. Other men stop to watch. One of the girls cheers. The two seem alike in power; after a few moments of huffing and sidestepping, Theseus tries to throw Asterius off his feet, but makes a reckless mistake - and the Minotaur hurls and pins him to the ground with a short victorious roar.

It tears through Ariadne's ears, and she is suddenly back home; she is a little girl again, shaking through the night. The Bull's muscles ripple under his pelt, and the way he presses his soles into the ground, the way he holds Theseus down suggest that he is more than familiar with the motion. Ariadne expects to hear a scream, and she is distantly surprised when she does not.

The waters slowly close above her head, and everything goes dark. She cannot breathe, cannot think, cannot see the light; she is drowning ashore. She makes some sort of a noise. Asterius turns his head and looks at her, but she cannot see her half-brother. She only sees the monster.

The beast.

She runs away from the camp to the forest, and even there she finds no rest. She paces, and paces, and paces, biting on her fingers.

The damned roar still rings in her ears, reverberates in her bones. Even if it goes silent forever, the echo of it will live on inside her. Years of dread and hatred cannot be not erased that easily; they are etched into her very being. She paces, she's lost, and no thread will lead her out. 

Theseus is blinded to reason and refuses to see the danger, and the rest of them follow him just as blindly. Why don't they feel what she feels? Cannot they see the horns, the fangs? Why are they living so calmly along the monster who nearly ended their lives? She promised, to herself, that she would follow Theseus to the Labyrinth if needed; he returned, but she still feels like she has to make a step into the cold depths.

Did she have the right to make a choice? Does she, now?

The waters are deep, deep, and she cannot get a single breath.

The skies are blackening. It is going to storm.

X

They decide to wait the storm out ashore.

Ariadne manages to drift away into sleep, but thunder shakes her awake. She sits up, rubs her eyes open; that does not help. She is still seeing dark, looming figures in the corner of her eye. Horned and dangerous, they are after her blood, once again.

The dream dissipates, but the choke does not. Her mind is slow and murky. Everything is black. Nothing is safe. The beast, once hidden away, now walks the land among the lambs.

Even here, in their camp, with the sea rumbling so comfortingly outside, the threat is real. She can feel the danger in her bones. No hero will save her. No ally will help her.

Her fingers pick up a dagger. Her feet take her, stumbling, to the Minotaur's sleeping place.

She walks through the camp, swaying uneasily between the sleeping bodies. WInd picks up, slapping her tunic against her legs. Thunder comes again. She grips the handle tighter without thinking. Her breath comes out ragged and hoarse: almost animal-like. 

She finds the Bull. It is in the corner, curled up in its sleep, its back rising and falling with the breaths; nothing but a black shapeless mound, darker than the night around it. Ariadne towers over it, and the dagger burns her hand. She snarls, blood pulsing in her ears, and the dread, the hatred, the tiredness lure her hand upwards, the jagged dagger pointing down-

Then she hears a whimper. It sounds like a hurt animal; it pierces through the fog of her half-asleep mind. She staggers, caught unaware; the dagger flies down, harmless, and slips into the folds of her tunic. Another thunder, another pained whine. She can guess who that is, because she's never heard a man cry like a calf.

She makes a strangled, unwilling sound.

The form before her freezes and slowly uncurls, sitting up. She cannot see much in the darkness but the eyes, reflecting what little light there is; and Theseus was right, so right. 

Asterius  _ does _ have human eyes.

Her fingers tense around the dagger's handle, hidden in the layers of her clothing. She finds it in herself to smile, even if the belated shame and horror eat on her heart.

“I… heard you,” she says quietly. “Are you afraid of storms?”

Asterius hesitates, but then, there it is: the smallest of nods, barely perceptible in the night. That might explain more things than she likes.

“Do you…” She needs another attempt, but she gets it out: “Do you want company?”

Asterius tenses up, and there is a long pause before he gives her a shake of his head, as tiny as the nod before. Ariadne feels relieved. Maybe her brother feels the same, because he softly breathes out after that.

“Alright. Don't worry. It will be over soon,” she lies, because storms can last for days sometimes, and they both know it; but Asterius gives her a slightly bigger nod nonetheless, and she returns to her sleeping place.

She can barely uncurl her strained fingers to put the dagger down. When she does, she lies back and covers her face with her palms.

She is way too similar to her mother, and she does not cry; perhaps it would be better for everyone if she did.

At least the thunderstorm is, indeed, a short one.


End file.
